Joan and Co.
“Please—just a minute, Mother. I want to tell you everything. It is
your right to know what I’ve done and what I’m going to do. I told you
once how he needed money to start in business.”
Mrs. Fairburne admitted this with an expression of annoyance.
“I asked you to help and you did not approve.”
“Certainly not.”
“So I told Dicky and he gave me the money.”
“You asked Mr. Burnett for money?”
“He was very nice,” nodded Joan. “He gave me five thousand dollars.”
“Joan—are you losing your mind!”
“I wanted to take it as a loan, but he would not consent to that. So
he came into the business with us as a silent partner. Now we are all
ready to start. And,” she concluded rather hurriedly, “I’m going to
keep the books.”
Mrs. Fairburne had difficulty for a second or two in catching her
breath. It was while she was in this helpless condition that Joan moved
swiftly to her side and put an arm around her.
“Mother, dear,” she pleaded. “I know how strange this all sounds to
you. But I’m in earnest. I want something to do and here is my chance.
I’ve wanted something to do ever since I came home from college. If
you had known Mildred and heard all she did—”
The mother looked up.
“You are such a child,” she murmured.
Joan met her mother’s eyes.
“Not any longer,” she answered. “That is the trouble, isn’t it? You
forget I have grown up.”
There was something about the girl’s mouth that told her this was the
truth. But it frightened her. She roused herself.
“Joan, dear, what you propose is impossible. It would break your
father’s heart if he heard. You must put the whole Quixotic plan out of
your head. We—we will take a little trip to the South or Bermuda—”
“No, Mother,” she put in gently. “As for Dad—is there any reason why he
should know if it is going to disturb him?”
“He would never forgive you—never forgive me.”
“Why should he feel like that?”
“The whole idea is so unusual.”
“With thousands of girls working for their living?”
“But they—they are not Fairburnes.”
“No—they are not Fairburnes. But I don’t like to think they are better
than Fairburnes, Mother.”
“Joan—I really think I should call Dr. Nichols!”
“Nonsense. Now you come up to your room and get ready for dinner. I’m
sure that by to-morrow you will look at it differently.”
“Will you call Louise?”
“Let me help you—please.”
Mrs. Fairburne took her daughter’s arm and allowed herself to be helped
to her room. And once there Joan was still reluctant to summon Louise.
“Let me do your hair to-night,” she pleaded.
So she unfastened her mother’s hair and let it down over her shoulders
and combed out the fine strands that were beginning to show silver.
“It is beautiful!” exclaimed Joan.
CHAPTER XXII
A SALE
The thing Devons had evolved was a patent-leather finish at least fifty
per cent less liable to crack than any on the market, produced at four
fifths the cost of the Burnett product. But it was one thing to claim
this and another to prove or even to get a chance to prove it. At the
end of a week he had enough to allow a manufacturer to give it a fair
trial. Armed with letters he had from his professors at Tech—letters
intended for the benefit of teaching staffs rather than business men—he
left Joan in charge of the office one day, looking very important with
this new responsibility, and crossed the city in search of the manager
of the Doggett Shoe Company. He waited two hours in an outer office
after filling out the slip giving his name and business, and when
finally ushered into the presence of A.E. Hartley found the man still
too busy even to glance up from his desk as he entered. It was not an
encouraging reception, and Devons had not had sufficient experience to
accept the situation calmly. He had ventured forth with an enthusiasm
which he expected to find reflected in every one he met, without
stopping to consider that this was rather an unreasonable presumption
in view of the fact that the world at large knew as yet nothing about
the Devons process, and probably if informed would care scarcely more.
The case of Hartley, however, was different. He should have been
immediately interested, though, perhaps, it was not fair to expect him
to get excited before he heard of it.
Devons studied the man behind the desk—a man of fifty with a square,
non-committal face. He had a short, iron-gray mustache and a square
jaw, a sharp nose and well-set eyes. With his head on his hand he was
figuring rapidly. Finally he pressed a button, to which a boy responded
instantly. With a quick, nervous movement he handed the lad a sheet of
paper with the single word:
“Henderson.”
Then he looked up at Devons.
“Well?” he inquired, as though resenting the interruption.
Devons felt his heart leap to his mouth. He was as excited as he had
been when he stepped before the examiners for his oral examination.
“I understand you use considerable patent leather in your factory.”
“Yes.”
“I have perfected a new process—”
“Not interested!” snapped Hartley.
Devons flushed.
“You won’t even let me tell you about it?”
Hartley, who had started about his work, looked up again. There was a
note of such deep disappointment in Devons’s voice that his attention
was attracted once more. It was quite evident that he was not dealing
with the professional salesman.
“Who do you represent?” asked Hartley.
“Myself.”
“If your time is valuable, let me tell you this: we purchase our entire
supply of the Burnett people.”
“Yes, sir. All I was going to ask was that you give my process a trial.”
“We have no time to experiment.”
“The experimenting has been all done. I have some letters—”
Fumbling in his pocket Devons produced them. Hartley indifferently
unfolded the first.
“Tech?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Devons named his class.
As it happened, Hartley had preceded him at the same institution
fifteen years before. He had been under this same professor who
testified as to Devons’s ability.
“Bring up a chair and sit down,” Hartley invited him as he finished the
letter.
Devons hastily complied.
“Now, tell me about it.”
Hartley sat back in his chair with the tips of the fingers of his right
hand matched against the tips of the fingers of his left hand. He
listened without comment of any kind as Devons began at the beginning
and sketched his early laboratory work leading him to his later task.
“I saw that the older the oil the more perfect the result. It seemed
that some change took place in the maturing process. I experimented to
discover what that was and found out. Then I devised a way of maturing
the oil more rapidly and more completely. This allows the skin to
absorb more of it. That’s all.”
“That’s enough,” smiled Hartley, “if you’ve done it.”
“You mean you doubt it?”
“I admit I’m skeptical. My boy, I’ve looked into at least fifty such
claims personally. I’ve spent at least twenty thousand dollars right
here trying to achieve that result. Burnett has spent five times as
much, and every manufacturer of patent leather in the country an
equal amount. An uncrackable patent leather has been the dream of
manufacturers from the first.”
“I don’t claim it is absolutely uncrackable.”
“Merely fifty per cent better,” nodded Hartley. “It is well to be
modest. If you could show me something only ten per cent more pliable I
should feel repaid.”
“I can,” declared Devons. “Will you give it a trial?”
Hartley considered a moment.
“State just what your proposition is,” he said cautiously.
“That you let me furnish enough of the dressing for your test.”
“You are not asking for a contract of any sort?”
“If the process makes good, that won’t be necessary, will it?”
“No,” admitted Hartley, “if the price is right.”
“I haven’t worked that out carefully yet, but I figure it should be
less than the present product.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Hartley: “how do you get that result?”
“Less oil,” answered Devons.
Hartley shook his head skeptically.
“Send it on,” he concluded; “but frankly I don’t believe it.”
“Carlow, Reed & Co. tested it.”
“Then why didn’t they buy it?”
“They were afraid of Burnett,” Devons answered.
He had the letter with him and handed it to Hartley. The latter read it
through carefully and returned it.
“Well, I’m not afraid of Burnett,” was his comment. “Send the stuff
down to-morrow.”
“I’ll have it here to-night,” answered Devons. “Good-day.”
“Good luck, my boy,” answered Hartley.
Not counting the wait the interview had not lasted ten minutes. When
Devons came out on the street again he drew a long breath. If he had
seen a taxi at that moment he would have been tempted to get in. Any
other way of getting back to Joan with such news as this seemed clumsy
and tedious.
But if he had only known it, Joan herself had not been idle in the
meanwhile. She had done quite an unexpected and brilliant stroke of
business on her own account. Devons had not been gone from the office a
half-hour before the door opened and a middle-aged man entered, glanced
around, caught sight of her, and removed his hat. His hair was swept
back from his forehead as though he were facing a strong wind.
“It said Devons Manufacturing Company upon the door,” he explained, as
though to account for having entered so unceremoniously.
“This _is_ the Devons Manufacturing Company,” she assured him.
The chemicals and kettles bore out the statement which, considering the
young woman herself, he would still have been inclined to doubt. Either
she was out of place here or the kettles were.
“Is Mr. Devons in?”
“No,” answered Joan. “He may be gone several hours.”
Forsythe studied his watch a moment, and then raised his eyes and
studied the girl another moment.
“I’m sorry,” he ventured as though feeling his way; “I wanted
particularly to see him this morning.”
“Is there anything I can do?” inquired Joan.
“I don’t know,” smiled Forsythe. “May I ask if you are associated with
the business?”
“I’m the bookkeeper,” she announced.
“I see. Then you are in charge of the plant?”
“Until Mr. Devons returns,” she admitted with a trace of color.
“Perhaps, then, you will do quite as well,” suggested Forsythe. “All I
wanted was to inquire a little more fully into his product. I wonder if
you yourself are posted enough to tell me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it except that it is very
wonderful. If you could come back this afternoon, I’m sure he’ll be in
then.”
Forsythe shook his head.
“I only have an hour.”
He turned eagerly once more toward the laboratory end of the office.
“He makes it over there,” Joan informed him.
“I see.”
He stepped nearer, and Joan sensed his unspoken question.
“If you’re interested, you might look about,” she suggested graciously.
He took advantage of her offer instantly.
“Thanks. I will.”
He appeared to be very much interested in every detail, even to the
extent of investigating all the labeled bottles of chemicals and some
that were not labeled. He removed the corks from these and smelled the
contents, and once even poured some out into a graduating glass and
held it to the light. Occasionally he asked her a question, but without
any very satisfactory results.
So he came to several jugs of the finished product, and this appeared
to interest him most of all.
“I don’t suppose that as yet he is ready to put this on the market?” he
inquired.
“Why, yes,” she answered quickly; “that is just exactly what he is
doing. He has gone to-day to try to sell the little he has ready.”
“This?” inquired Forsythe.
She nodded.
“There isn’t very much of it. We have only just started.”
Forsythe straightened.